I have heard much of such timid lovers, but I have never yet seen one
die. And since I myself have escaped death after all the troubles I have
borne, I do not think that any one can die of love.”
“Ah, Saffredent!” said Dagoucin, “how do you expect to be loved since
those who are of your opinion never die? Yet have I known a goodly
number who have died of no other ailment than perfect love.”
“Since you know such stories,” said Longarine, “I give you my vote to
tell us a pleasant one, which shall be the ninth of to-day.”
“To the end,” said Dagoucin, “that signs and miracles may lead you to
put faith in what I have said, I will relate to you something which
happened less than three years ago.”
[Illustration: 012.jpg Tailpiece]
[Illustration: 013a.jpg The Dying Gentleman receiving the Embraces of
his Sweetheart]
[The Dying Gentleman receiving the Embraces of his Sweetheart]
[Illustration: 013.jpg Page Image]
_TALE IX_.
_The perfect love borne by a gentleman to a damsel, being too deeply
concealed and disregarded, brought about his death, to the great regret
of his sweetheart_.
Between Dauphiné and Provence there lived a gentleman who was far richer
in virtue, comeliness, and honour than in other possessions, and who was
greatly in love with a certain damsel. I will not mention her name,
out of consideration for her kinsfolk, who are of good and illustrious
descent; but you may rest assured that my story is a true one. As he was
not of such noble birth as herself, he durst not reveal his affection,
for the love he bore her was so great and perfect that he would rather
have died than have desired aught to her dishonour. Seeing that he was
so greatly beneath her, he had no hope of marrying her; in his love,
therefore, his only purpose was to love her with all his strength and
as perfectly as he was able. This he did for so long a time that at last
she had some knowledge of it; and, seeing that the love he bore her
was so full of virtue and of good intent, she felt honoured by it, and
showed him in turn so much favour that he, who sought nothing better
than this, was well contented.
But malice, which is the enemy of all peace, could not suffer this
honourable and happy life to last, and certain persons spoke to the
maiden’s mother of their amazement at this gentleman being thought so
much of in her house. They said that they suspected him of coming there
more on account of her daughter than of aught else, adding that he
had often been seen in converse with her. The mother, who doubted the
gentleman’s honour as little as that of any of her own children, was
much distressed on hearing that his presence was taken in bad part, and,
dreading lest malicious tongues should cause a scandal, she entreated
that he would not for some time frequent her house as he had been wont
to do. He found this hard to bear, for he knew that his honourable
conversation with her daughter did not deserve such estrangement.
Nevertheless, in order to silence evil gossip, he withdrew until the
rumours had ceased; then he returned as before, his absence having in no
wise lessened his love.
One day, however, whilst he was in the house, he heard some talk of
marrying the damsel to a gentleman who did not seem to him to be so very
rich that he should be entitled to take his mistress from him. So he
began to pluck up courage, and engaged his friends to speak for him,
believing that, if the choice were left to the damsel, she would prefer
him to his rival. Nevertheless, the mother and kinsfolk chose the
other suitor, because he was much richer; whereupon the poor gentleman,
knowing his sweetheart to be as little pleased as himself, gave way to
such sorrow, that by degrees, and without any other distemper, he became
greatly changed, seeming as though he had covered the comeliness of his
face with the mask of that death, to which hour by hour he was joyously
hastening.
Meanwhile, he could not refrain from going as often as was possible to
converse with her whom he so greatly loved. But at last, when strength
failed him, he was constrained to keep his bed; yet he would not have
his sweetheart know of this, lest he should cast part of his grief on
her. And giving himself up to despair and sadness, he was no longer able
to eat, drink, sleep, or rest, so that it became impossible to recognise
him by reason of his leanness and strangely altered features.
Some one brought the news of this to his sweetheart’s mother, who was
a lady full of charity, and who had, moreover, such a liking for the
gentleman, that if all the kinsfolk had been of the same opinion as
herself and her daughter, his merits would have been preferred to the
possessions of the other. But the kinsfolk on the father’s side would
not hear of it. However, the lady went with her daughter to see the
unhappy gentleman, and found him more dead than alive. Perceiving that
the end of his life was at hand, he had that morning confessed and
received the Holy Sacrament, thinking to die without seeing anybody
more. But although he was at death’s door, when he saw her who for him
was the resurrection and the life come in, he felt so strengthened that
he started up in bed.
“What motive,” said he to the lady, “has inclined you to come and see
one who already has a foot in the grave, and of whose death you are
yourself the cause?”
“How is it possible,” said the lady, “that the death of one whom we
like so well can be brought about by our fault? Tell me, I pray, why you
speak in this manner?”
“Madam,” he replied, “I concealed my love for your daughter as long as I
was able; and my kinsfolk, in speaking of a marriage between myself
and her, made known more than I desired, since I have thereby had the
misfortune to lose all hope; not, indeed, in regard to my own pleasure,
but because I know that she will never have such fair treatment and so
much love from any other as she would have had from me. Her loss of
the best and most loving friend she has in the world causes me more
affliction than the loss of my own life, which I desired to preserve for
her sake only. But since it cannot in any wise be of service to her, the
loss of it is to me great gain.”
Hearing these words, the lady and her daughter sought to comfort him.
“Take courage, my friend,” said the mother. “I pledge you my word that,
if God gives you back your health, my daughter shall have no other
husband but you. See, she is here present, and I charge her to promise
you the same.”
The daughter, weeping, strove to assure him of what her mother promised.
He well knew, however, that even if his health were restored he would
still lose his sweetheart, and that these fair words were only uttered
in order somewhat to revive him. Accordingly, he told them that had they
spoken to him thus three months before, he would have been the lustiest
and happiest gentleman in France; but that their aid came so late, it
could bring him neither belief nor hope. Then, seeing that they strove
to make him believe them, he said--
“Well, since, on account of my feeble state, you promise me a blessing
which, even though you would yourselves have it so, can never be mine, I
will entreat of you a much smaller one, for which, however, I was never
yet bold enough to ask.”
They immediately vowed that they would grant it, and bade him ask
boldly.
“I entreat you,” he said, “to place in my arms her whom you promise me
for my wife, and to bid her embrace and kiss me.”
The daughter, who was unaccustomed to such familiarity, sought to make
some difficulty, but her mother straightly commanded her, seeing that
the gentleman no longer had the feelings or vigour of a living man.
Being thus commanded, the girl went up to the poor sufferer’s bedside,
saying--
“I pray you, sweetheart, be of good cheer.”
Then, as well as he could, the dying man stretched forth his arms,
wherein flesh and blood alike were lacking, and with all the strength
remaining in his bones embraced her who was the cause of his death. And
kissing her with his pale cold lips, he held her thus as long as he was
able. Then he said to her--
“The love I have borne you has been so great and honourable, that,
excepting in marriage, I have never desired of you any other favour
than the one you are granting me now, for lack of which and with which
I shall cheerfully yield up my spirit to God. He is perfect love and
charity. He knows the greatness of my love and the purity of my desire,
and I beseech Him, while I hold my desire within my arms, to receive my
spirit into His own.”
With these words he again took her in his arms, and with such exceeding
ardour that his enfeebled heart, unable to endure the effort, was
deprived of all its faculties and life; for joy caused it so to swell
that the soul was severed from its abode and took flight to its Creator.
And even when the poor body had lain a long time without life, and was
thus unable to retain its hold, the love which the damsel had always
concealed was made manifest in such a fashion that her mother and
the dead man’s servants had much ado to separate her from her lover.
However, the girl, who, though living, was in a worse condition than if
she had been dead, was by force removed at last out of the gentleman’s
arms. To him they gave honourable burial; and the crowning point of
the ceremony was the weeping and lamentation of the unhappy damsel,
who having concealed her love during his lifetime, made it all the more
manifest after his death, as though she wished to atone for the wrong
that she had done him. And I have heard that although she was given a
husband to comfort her, she has never since had joy in her heart. (1)
1 By an expression made use of by Dagoucin (see _ante_),
Queen Margaret gives us to understand that the incidents
here related occurred three years prior to the writing of
the story. It may be pointed out, however, that there is
considerable analogy between the conclusion of this tale and
the death of Geffroy Rudel de Blaye, one of the earliest
troubadours whose name has been handed down to us. Geffroy,
who lived at the close of the twelfth century, became so
madly enamoured of the charms of the Countess of Tripoli,
after merely hearing an account of her moral and physical
perfections, that, although in failing health, he embarked
for Africa to see her. On reaching the port of Tripoli, he
no longer had sufficient strength to leave the vessel,
whereupon the Countess, touched by his love, visited him on
board, taking his hand and giving him a kindly greeting.
Geffroy could scarcely say a few words of thanks; his
emotion was so acute that he died upon the spot. See J. de
Nostredame’s _Vies des plus Célèbres et Anciens Poëtes
Provençaux_(Lyons, 1575, p. 25); Raynouard’s _Choix des
Poésies des Troubadours_ (vol. v. p. 165); and also
Raynouard’s _Histoire Littéraire de la France_ (vol. xiv. p.
559).--L.
“What think you of that, gentlemen, you who would not believe what I
said? Is not this example sufficient to make you confess that perfect
love, when concealed and disregarded, may bring folks to the grave?
There is not one among you but knows the kinsfolk on the one and the
other side, (2) and so you cannot doubt the story, although nobody would
be disposed to believe it unless he had some experience in the matter.”
2 This certainly points to the conclusion that the tale is
founded upon fact, and not, as M. Leroux de Lincy suggests,
borrowed from the story of Geffroy Rudel de Blaye. It will
have been observed (_ante_) that the Queen of Navarre
curiously enough lays the scene of her narrative between
Provence and Dauphiné. These two provinces bordered upon one
another, excepting upon one point where they were separated
by the so-called Comtat Venaissin or Papal state of Avignon.
Here, therefore, the incidents of the story, if authentic,
would probably have occurred. The story may be compared with
Tale L. (_post_).--Ed.
When the ladies heard this they all had tears in their eyes, but Hircan
said to them--
“He was the greatest fool I ever heard of. By your faith, now, I ask
you, is it reasonable that we should die for women who are made only for
us, or that we should be afraid to ask them for what God has commanded
them to give us? I do not speak for myself nor for any who are married.
I myself have all that I want or more; but I say it for such men as
are in need. To my thinking, they must be fools to fear those whom they
should rather make afraid. Do you not perceive how greatly this poor
damsel regretted her folly? Since she embraced the gentleman’s dead
body--an action repugnant to human nature--she would not have refused
him while he was alive had he then trusted as much to boldness as he
trusted to pity when he lay upon his death-bed.”
“Nevertheless,” said Oisille, “the gentleman most plainly showed that he
bore her an honourable love, and for this he will ever be worthy of
all praise. Chastity in a lover’s heart is something divine rather than
human.”
“Madam,” said Saffredent, “in support of Hircan’s opinion, which is also
mine, I pray you believe that Fortune favours the bold, and that there
is no man loved by a lady but may at last, in whole or in part, obtain
from her what he desires, provided he seek it with wisdom and passion.
But ignorance and foolish fear cause men to lose many a good chance; and
then they impute their loss to their mistress’s virtue, which they have
never verified with so much as the tip of the finger. A fortress was
never well assailed but it was taken.”
“Nay,” said Parlamente, “I am amazed that you two should dare to talk in
this way. Those whom you have loved owe you but little thanks, or else
your courting has been carried on in such evil places that you deem all
women to be alike.”
“For myself, madam,” said Saffredent, “I have been so unfortunate that
I am unable to boast; but I impute my bad luck less to the virtue of
the ladies than to my own fault, in not conducting my enterprises with
sufficient prudence and sagacity. In support of my opinion I will cite
no other authority than the old woman in the _Romance of the Rose_, who
says--
‘Of all, fair sirs, it truly may be said,
Woman for man and man for woman’s made.’ (3)